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Thursday, July 31, 2008

Atyllah Checks In

It’s been a while since we’ve heard from her. It’s not that she hasn’t been present; it’s just that I’ve been trying to block her out of my head. But let me tell you, chicken telepathy is a powerful thing. And now, addled as I am with the red scribbles all over my manuscript, my blocking power is fading. So I’ve given in. Kip-kip-kip-kip-kip, here, Chicken, here, Chicken…


OOOOWWWWW!!!!


See what happens; I go away for a while and she gets all cocky. Yes, I know, poor choice of words from a chicken but you know what I mean.

So, greetings Earthlings and how are you? Still war mongering and squabbling, I see. Still trying to pull the wool over each others’ eyes, still doing a splendid job of screwing up the planet. I tell you, you have no idea how it looks from out here. This teeny tiddly little planet filled with one particular species that believes it has got it “all right”. Wrong! So very, very wrong. I said once before that my money was on the bacteria. It still is – well so okay, it’s split evenly between them and the viruses. And at least they understand the concept of evolution. But not you lot. Oh no, you just keep on with the same old, same old, century after century, one millennium after another. A chicken could get dizzy watching you go round in ever-diminishing circles. It’s really like watching one of those soap operas that just goes on and on – you can not watch for three years and still pick up the story because it hasn’t really changed.

And I know you think you’re civilized, but of course you’re not – you’re positively primeval. I mean, prime evil. I’m sure an ancestor somewhere went and watched some early version of Cruella De Ville and decided to model himself on said fiend. I mean, really, couldn’t you have chosen a better role model. Even a bad-tempered hippopotamus puts most of you to shame. And let’s face it, while the hippo is one animal which kills more humans than most, it’s only because you insist on paddling your canoe over the poor beast’s snout. What do you expect? I mean, really?

Huh? What was that? You don’t want to be told about your shortcomings? No, I’m sure you don’t. Most of you are generally not overly fond of the truth. What? You want to know how Granny Were is? Are you sure? Because the reality of that is she is meaner, nastier and more wereish than ever. But okay, so here’s a tasty tidbit to titillate your senses. She’s in lurve. With a werewolf. No, I kid you not. On our last trip out here she wandered off for a bit of full moon squawking and found herself in the depths of the Transylvanian Alps. No, I’ve no idea how she got there. But the upshot of the thing is she ran headfirst into this huge, muscular brute of a hound and it was lust at first sight. Let me tell you, before you even try to imagine it, there is nothing quite so distressing as the sight of one’s granny in full-lust. Because, I’ve learned to my utter embarrassment, that not only does my werechicken Granny do the full lunar thing, she also does the full frontal lunar thing – and when it’s with a werewolf – oh my, you should see the fur and feathers fly. Honestly, one as young as me should never be subjected to such were-ish erotica. And oh yes, she did the full red lace and leather negligee thing – just so he could rip it to shreds. I swear, it’s at least five years of therapy for me. Bet you wish you hadn’t asked, right?

Granny dressed for the...

Well, on that note, I find I’ve gone a bit hot around the neck-feathers, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to raid Vanilla’s drinks cabinet. I could do with some mind-numbing.

Don’t bother to be good, because I know you can’t but do try to remember you’re not the only species on the planet. Ba-kaaaak!

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